Santa's Little Helper
by Ooshka
Summary: Baking cookies for your son's class should be simple, right? But a slight miscalculation leads to Emma Swan accepting help from her neighbour Killian Jones. Is it OK to let strange men into your house if you only want to use them for their baking skills? CS Secret Santa gift for emmaswanchoosesyou on Tumblr. Modern AU. One-shot.


**Here it is, my CS Secret Santa gift for the lovely emmaswanchoosesyou on Tumblr (where I'm ooshka-babooshka). I have enjoyed getting to know you over the last few weeks, and I hope you enjoy your (slightly early) gift. I used this prompt:**

" _ **Hi we're neighbours and omg are you alright I could smell**_ _ **cooking**_ _ **burning - whoaaa now that's just embarrassing. Step aside I'll handle this"**_

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing**

"It's a good school. It's a good school," Emma chanted in her head as she stared at the slip of crumpled paper Henry had thrust into her hand and looked at her hopefully.

It was a mantra she'd adopted ever since she'd enrolled Henry at the place, taken him on a walk-through his Kindergarten classroom and met with the principal who gave her speech about how the school valued its relationship with parents and wanted them to be an integral part of the classroom.

"Oh. OK. Sure," Emma had said, hoping the demands weren't going to be too onerous because really, as a single parent who could only work as a bail-bondsperson on limited nights now, Emma wasn't about to take a lot of time away from work.

At first it had been cute, the invitations that came home to see the work they'd been doing, and Emma had been able to carve an hour out here and there for that. Then there'd been a class trip to the museum and Emma had had to say no, she wasn't available to come. Which would have been fine and dandy if Henry hadn't spotted her, dressed in a far too short skirt and waiting on a bail jumper who thought he was hooking up with her fake Tinder profile, while he walked along the street with the rest of his class holding hands and singing happy songs.

It wasn't so much that Henry had looked disappointed that she had other things to do, it was the looks she got from the other mothers, the ones who wondered just why she thought she could blow off her only son's first school trip to hang around outside a bar.

So, yeah. This note, the one that was printed with the words "For the class party my Mom can bring…" with the blank filled in by Henry to say cookies, although the k was back to front and the i was the largest letter of them all, this note she'd say yes to.

"Sure. We can make cookies."

"For Friday. For the party. OK?"

"Yeah. OK."

Only Thursday night had come around, much quicker than any Thursday night ought to, especially when Emma had been out until 2am the night before trying to chase down a particularly reluctant bail jumper, and then up again at 6am to get to Henry off to school. So it was only when Emma had picked Henry up from the babysitter, Mrs Lucas, and he'd started babbling about the party the next day that she'd remembered; cookies.

"You're gonna make the cookies tonight, huh Mom?" Henry asked, as they started down the street.

"Yep. Sure am, kid."

"Can I help? Can I put M&Ms on them? Can I lick the bowl? Roland's gonna lick the bowl, but he's not allowed to mix. His mom said no."

"Mmm-hmm." Emma was preoccupied trying to find a recipe for cookies on her phone, preferably one that didn't look too difficult. "So what's Roland's mom making?" She'd seen Roland's mom, in all her good-skirt-suited shininess and she suspected that it would be something complicated, and also that any bowl-licking might be out of the question.

"Uh…dunno. But his baby sister, she's not allowed to help. I'm glad I'm not a baby." Henry shrugged and didn't look too concerned about it all. Emma might have known it was no good trying to get useful information out of a five year old. Honestly, if her job relied on dealing with children she'd never find anyone.

"Great. Well, we're making cookies!" Emma sounded a lot more enthusiastic than she felt. Even a detour to the store to buy ingredients before heading home didn't make her feel any better about the whole enterprise. It was just…a little outside her comfort zone.

It wasn't really like she'd had much opportunity to bake, growing up in the foster system. It was something you did with your mom…probably. But Emma had never had a mom, and so she was flying blind on this one.

With Henry's rather enthusiastic help she managed to get the cookie dough made and in the oven, just before bedtime. Prising the bowl out of Henry's sticky little hands so he could go and brush his teeth was a whole other matter and Emma tried to be as patient as she could as Henry managed to locate, and then scoop up, every last morsel of dough. "Tayps gub," he murmured, which Emma took as affirmation that things were going to work out.

It was only once the bowl had been reluctantly relinquished and Emma tried to send Henry off to brush his teeth that he threw something completely unexpected at her. "So…you got my costume, right?"

"Costume?"

"Yeah. 'Cos we can wear costumes to the party. It said in the email…you got the email, right Mom?"

Emma did remember something about an email coming from Henry's teacher, a rather enthusiastic woman called Merida whose presence in Henry's life had mostly meant that he was fond of making random statements about the current time in Scotland at all hours of the day. "Um…yeah. I think Ms Dunbroch sent something through…"

"Uh-huh. And Roland said that he's gonna wear Darth Vader pyjamas, but that's not really a costume, huh Mom? Ms Dunbroch said it was fine, but won't everybody just think that he forgot to get dressed?"

"Um. Dunno." Emma was hoping that Henry wasn't expecting her to magic up a Darth Vadar _anything_. Last year, Henry had been all about The Avengers but this year, it was _Star Wars_ all the way. Emma had been saving hard to make sure that Santa came to that party but in the meantime, Henry was going to have to make do. "So, you need me to get out your Ironman suit."

"Uh…yep." They located the costume at the bottom of Henry's closet, and Emma set about trying to remove the smeared chocolate that was still on there from Halloween. Mission accomplished, she listened to Henry read his incredibly boring school book, tucked him in and was back in the kitchen just in time to smell the smoke pouring out of the oven.

"Son of a bitch." She opened the oven door which was a total mistake as the increase in smoke set the smoke alarm to shrieking and Emma was standing on a chair trying to knock the thing off the ceiling when she heard the rapping on the front door.

"Shit." The smoke alarm gave way and crashed to the floor and Emma jumped down after it, switching it off and tossing it on the counter while she considered ignoring whoever was at the door in favour of just checking that Henry was still asleep. But, if he'd inherited anything from her, it was his ability to sleep through Armageddon and, if the repeated rapping was anything to go by, the person at the door wasn't going away anytime soon.

Annoyed at everything, including herself and her own inability to make some stupid freaking cookies without it turning into a disaster, Emma ignored the whole 'check who it is first' protocol and wrenched the apartment door open. "Yes?"

Emma had heard the annoyance in her own voice but watching the reaction of her new neighbour was another thing altogether. She half-expected him to turn around and high-tail it out of there, but she watched as he steadied himself and asked "I was, uh, passing and, uh, smelled burning. You alright in there?"

His accent was still as interesting as Emma remembered it from her one, highly embarrassing, encounter with him in the elevator when Henry had pointed to his obviously prosthetic left hand and said, in a whisper that might as well have been a shout given the small space they were all standing in, "Look! Like Luke Skywalker!" and Emma had half-smiled in an embarrassed fashion and hustled Henry out of there as soon as they came to a stop.

"No, it's fine," she said, trying to gather her thoughts. "It's just, uh, cookies. Cookies I should have taken out earlier so Henry would have something for the party at school tomorrow, but I didn't, because, you know, clearly my mothering skills suck but at least I got the chocolate out of the Ironman suit." Emma exhaled feeling a little better for having got it all off her chest, but annoyed at herself again for having unburdened on a total stranger. Still, he'd back away quickly now, and she'd shut the door gather her thoughts and try making the cookies again.

It was a good plan when she thought about it like that, but it might as well as have been a plan to sail across the Atlantic single-handedly for about as attainable as it felt to Emma right then.

The neighbour hadn't disappeared though and, short of shutting the door in his face and compounding her rudeness, Emma was stuck waiting for him to gather his thoughts.

"Listen this might seem a little, uh…well, anyway. Can I give you a hand, love?" He shrugged and held up the prosthesis with a grin that Emma would have found quite charming if she was entirely certain how to take the guy's offer, or whether he was making fun of himself in the process.

"Sorry. Just trying to put you at ease a little," he said, when Emma hadn't responded. "Killian Jones, I live two doors that way and I promise I have no ill-intentions. I just…well, you seem like you need some help."

Emma stood there, evaluating what he was offering. Help wasn't something she was used to being offered, or to accepting when it was. But she was tired, and just wanted to be able to give Henry the cookies and not have to face all the other moms in the morning knowing all she had to contribute for the party was a platter of burnt cookie-dough.

"Um…fine. OK."

"Can I…come in then?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Emma moved out of the way to let him pass and watched as he walked into the little kitchen and looked around.

"So, what are we making…uh?"

"Cookies," Emma replied. "They were supposed to be cookies."

The guy…Killian…looked a little thoughtful. "No, I meant…you know…your name is?"

"Oh." Emma had been so intent on just getting him in here and getting it done that she'd forgotten about simple human pleasantries. If anything maybe he should be worried that she was likely to be a serial killer. "Emma. Swan."

"Pleased to meet you, Emma. Lovely to be able to put a name to the face."

"You've been watching my face?" Emma started to wonder if she'd done the right thing letting him in to her apartment.

"Well, it's hard not to." She bristled slightly at Killian's answer, it was starting to sound like a pick-up line and she simply wasn't in the mood.

"I mean…" he continued, watching her carefully, "That we're neighbours. I remember seeing you around…with your boy."

"Ah." Emma wasn't certain whether or not the fact he'd noticed Henry as well was any more comforting. What did she really know about this guy anyway? Other than his Smokey the Bear moment, he could have been any creeper who decided to take advantage of her in a weak moment.

And, even as tired as she was, Emma wasn't going to have a weak moment now. She was about to open her mouth to suggest that maybe it was best to call it a night because she'd be fine on her own now, when he spoke again.

"It was hard not to notice his interest. In…in this." He held up his left arm, the prosthesis clearly visible and Emma deflated a little.

Oh yeah. She was the one with the nosy kid. Right. Best to move on in case embarrassment got the better of her.

"So…cookies?" Killian said, and Emma walked over and pulled the baking sheet of ruined ones out of the oven.

"Yeah. Well, they were meant to be." She looked at them sadly for a minute, remembering how excited Henry about been about the whole thing and how disappointed he was going to be if she couldn't show him anything remotely cookie-like in the morning. Then she dumped them all in the trash.

"Hmm," Killian said thoughtfully, looking around the kitchen. "I don't know if I'm much of an expert on cookies, per se."

Emma tried not to sigh but the briefest of huffs escaped anyway and, goddamn it, Killian noticed and narrowed his eyes at her. Honestly, if he couldn't bake cookies then what use was he?

She would have said something to that effect, but she felt it might be a little too close to the bone, as it were, given his hand. Or lack of one.

"But all is not lost," Killian said, and Emma wondered if he was one of those annoyingly perpetually optimistic people and, if so, she'd be tempted to push him straight back out the door. "How do you feel about shortbread? I could probably manage that."

"Shortbread…" Emma repeated, slowly, stalling for time while he looked at her expectantly. "Umm…" She was a little clueless as to what he meant. "Do you think the kids would like that?"

"Well I had it all the time when I was a lad. It's traditional, you know."

"Oh. Well if you say so." Bread-making seemed even more daunting than baking cookies as far as Emma was concerned but she was prepared to give this a try if it meant she had something to contribute to the class party the next day other than a bucket load of maternal guilt.

Killian seemed to take that as a yes and Emma stood back as he started pulling together ingredients and checking what equipment she had. That gave her time to study the man who had come to her rescue.

Emma thought she was pretty good at getting a read on people; it helps when you're never sure what group home you'll be in next. And in her line of work, well, it was the little things that gave people away, told her when they were going to run, or try to fight their way out, or just stand there and deny everything.

But this guy, this Killian Jones, everything she'd seen so far screamed genuine and, honestly, that was far scarier than the most bald-faced liar standing their ground would ever be. Because there had to be an angle, right? No one ever _just_ wanted to help you out of a mess.

Emma watched Killian try to get her scales to work and considered several angles, most of them in his face. He was handsome, she'd known that from the brief glimpses she'd seen of him around the place, but it wasn't the glossy kind of handsome you saw staring out from billboards around the place. There was just a little too much scruff, and his dark hair was tousled in a way that you couldn't describe as 'artfully', but she really liked his eyes. They were such a dark blue and…

She realised she was getting a little carried away with her staring when Killian noticed, frowned and asked "You alright?"

"Yeah. Just…tired." Emma thought she needed sleep. Get this done, a good night's sleep and everything would be better.

"Um…I was just asking. Measuring cups, any of those?"

"I've got this?" Emma held up the small glass jug with most of the measurements long worn off that she'd used previously.

"Oh. Well. That'll do fine then."

Emma figured he was just being polite; nothing about this screamed 'fine', everything pointed to her being a crap baker, and, possibly, a crap mom.

Even after five years it was far, far too easy for Emma to slip into that old black hole again, the one she thought she'd never dig herself out of, the one where no matter what she did, she'd never be like the other mothers, the mother Henry deserved. It was only her determination to not let Henry end up in the endless cycle of foster homes and group homes and all points in between that kept her going, kept her telling herself that she hadn't completely failed him.

But even so; she felt like she was on a knife-edge with that most of the time.

"You've spaced out again, love." Killian's voice broke into her reverie and she wondered when they'd progressed to endearments. "You want to help me knead? It's kind of a two handed job."

"Oh. Sure." She stepped forward to the counter as Killian moved to give her space. It was hard to know what the protocol was for this sort of thing. Did she protest because he'd managed so competently so far, or did she accept that he knew his own limits?

It was probably her turn to do _something_ , though, so she grabbed the ball of dough and pounded it down.

"Maybe not like you want to kill it quite so decisively."

"Oh. OK." Emma tried just squishing the stuff with her fist. "More like this?"

"That'll do the trick."

It was actually kind of relaxing doing this, especially now the pressure was off a little because someone else was in charge. And she could blame him if all she ended up with was another tray of burnt…well, whatever this dough stuff was going to be.

When Killian had judged that she'd kneaded it enough, he showed her how to roll it out and then picked up the star-shaped cookie cutter she'd used earlier. "So, it's still cookies?" she asked.

"Yes but slightly different. You don't really have it here, I guess."

Emma shrugged, unsure if she'd somehow missed out on something simply because the foster system was a little sparse on most things at Christmas. Instead it seemed to easier to take the conversation down a route that didn't involve her own upbringing. "So, it's a British thing, I guess. You been here long?"

"Long enough." Emma waited for him to add more, but he remained, rather suspiciously, quiet and instead picked up the cookie cutter and started pressing out stars.

"So making…these, it's something you did there? Back home?" Emma wasn't sure why she kept asking questions, other than that it passed the time while they worked.

"Uh…not so much. It's more…well, they try to make you do things, tasks, for therapy… after, well you know." Killian lifted his left arm up briefly. "And I liked cooking, you had a set of instructions and you knew what you'd get at the end."

Emma nodded, she could understand the value in a small amount of certainty in what she'd found to be a very uncertain world. "Well, you seem to have the hang of it," she said, not completely sure that it was the right thing to say.

"Could be worse, I suppose." He started arranging the cut-out stars on the baking sheet and Emma was once again quietly impressed with how much he could do considering that his left hand was replaced with a hook. Sure, it was one of those ones that could pinch things to pick them up, but it still wasn't a hand.

"I can't cook at all," Emma confessed, quietly, her eyes back on her task as she tried to get all her stars to look the same. "I mean, I _have_ to, because of Henry. Without him I'd just live on take-out and pop-tarts. But I don't really know what I'm doing. I just get those deliveries…you know? They send you a box at the beginning of the week and recipes and stuff. But half the time I don't follow them…I guess I'm not as good at following the instructions as you."

Killian didn't say anything to that, he just watched, as she added her stars to the ones already laid out and then he adjusted the temperature setting on her oven and placed the sheet inside. "There, that should do it, if you take them out in half an hour you'll be set."

"Oh. Right." That all seemed a little too easy as far as Emma was concerned. After all, the cookies had made it to this stage and had still met a terrible fate. And, left to her own devices, she wasn't entirely certain she wouldn't just fall asleep on the couch.

"I might need someone to, uh, make sure I don't burn these…so, you want a drink? I've got whiskey and maybe some wine…" Emma started to open the cupboard behind her head to check, but Killian shook his head.

"No, uh…nothing like that for me."

For reasons that she was absolutely going to put down to not wanting a fire in the apartment, Emma really didn't want to see Killian leave. Grasping at straws she reached into the cupboard and pulled out two cups. "Cocoa then." It was a trick she'd learnt a long time ago, if you didn't give someone a choice, they couldn't say no to you.

And, sure enough, Killian blinked a couple of times and then stepped back to make room for Emma at the counter, but didn't make any attempt to actually leave the apartment. Emma was going to count that as one success for the night, although she wouldn't exactly ever admit her skills included being able to manipulate strange men into doing what she wanted. It came in handy on the job, though.

Emma handed Killian his cup, and then walked over to the sofa, looking back over her shoulder in silent invitation. Killian followed, although he started to look a little less comfortable than he had when they'd been baking. "I really didn't knock on the door expecting hospitality, I just didn't want anyone to burn to death."

"Or to destroy your place in the process," Emma added, sitting down on the sofa and watching as Killian carefully arranged himself next to her.

"I…ow! Bloody hell!" Whatever Killian had been about to say was cut off by his cry of pain as he jumped sideways. Emma looked down to see one tabby paw waving at them.

"Oh. That's Charming."

"It bloody was not…is that, is that a cat?" The paw had disappeared again, and Killian looked warily at the floor beside the sofa.

"No, that's his name. Charming. You know, as in Prince Charming. From, uh, _Snow White_ …or maybe _Cinderella_. Both I think. They didn't really get names did they, the men? Anyway, I got him from a shelter, because Henry wanted a pet and cats are low maintenance, and he was kinda older…so no one wanted him, and I felt sorry for him. But, uh, well he just doesn't realise he's a pet now and not a wild animal, so he just hangs out in the corners and stuff. Under the beds. Sometimes the sofa. I think he thinks he's hunting. But I can't get rid of him now, he just…it would be too mean."

"Right, I see." Killian gave the floor one last look and then raised his eyes back to Emma. She had appreciated his profile, but face-on he was really so handsome. How could one person even be that good-looking? "Well, pity'll get you a foot in a lot of doors."

Emma wanted to reassure him that pity had very little to do with the fact she'd decided to let him in the door, but she watched as he shook himself a little and asked her something else entirely. "So if he's Prince Charming, does that make you Snow White and/or Cinderella?"

"Uh…not, not really." Emma wasn't about to admit that the Disney movies she'd grown up, the ones they showed you in the group homes over and over and over again were still her favourites because she had, stupidly, dreamt of being a princess.

"And what am I then," Killian continued, a smile playing across his lips. "A dwarf, or one of the annoying but helpful mice?"

"Oh, well. Given this is all for a Christmas party I'd say you were Santa's Little Helper."

"Right. Of course. What else would I be?" He shrugged ruefully and Emma laughed. It was nice, having someone to laugh with.

All too soon the timer went off and Killian helped her take the shortbread out of the oven and set it out ready for the morning. "Well, I should be off then, love."

"OK. Uh, thanks for your help, again. It's been…well, I couldn't have done it without you. Obviously."

"That's what Santa's Little Helper is for," Killian replied, and then, all too quickly for Emma's liking, he left the apartment.

But at least she had something for the party now. Satisfied that the evening hadn't been a total disaster, Emma set the dishwasher going and headed off to bed herself.

In the morning, Henry was a little surprised that they'd produced shortbread instead of cookies. "But what happened to the M&Ms I put on the cookies?"

"Well, they were lost in the tragic oven accident of 2015."

"So…did they burn?"

"Yeah, but we have shortbread now." Emma held out the platter to Henry and he sniffed it, suspiciously.

"Did you know how to make that, Mom?"

"Let's just say I that I had some help…from, uh, one of Santa's little helpers." Emma told herself that she wasn't mentioning Killian by name simply because she didn't want her son to think that she let strange men into the apartment after he was asleep.

Although maybe she just, for once, wanted him to think she was capable of doing something other mothers did.

"Really?" Henry's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "That's so cool, Mom."

Emma decided the praise was worth any, small, deception, and merely smiled. "Now go and get your costume on because we've got to be out of here in 10, OK?"

By the time they got to school Henry was practically bursting with excitement and ran ahead while Emma carried the platter towards his class, following on behind other mothers doing the same thing and feeling, for once, like they weren't all looking at her.

Of course that feeling only lasted as long as it took to actually enter the classroom, where Henry quickly joined the throng of kids and parents clustered around the table the food was being laid out on.

"That looks good," one of them said to Emma, as she adjusted a platter of beautifully decorated cupcakes sporting red and green frosting. Was she Mary Margaret? Neal's mom, anyway. Although why anyone would name their kid Neal was beyond Emma. Sure the name had been kind of ruined for her by another Neal, her ex, the one who said he couldn't deal with a kid and bailed before Henry was even born, but she still didn't think it exactly suited the five year old currently running around the classroom pointing a plastic bow and arrow at other similarly excited kids.

"Oh. Um. Shortbread." Emma realised that wasn't the best way to accept a compliment but, well, she'd tried. Not quite a gold-star for Emma moment, but really, why should she care what a stranger thought of her?

Except that she did.

"Santa's little helper came and made them!" Henry shouted from where he'd suddenly appeared next to Emma. She hadn't even realised he'd finished hanging his backpack on the hook outside, let alone that he was now standing next to her and butting in to the conversation she was trying very hard not to have.

"Oh. Did they?" Mary Margaret asked, smiling at Henry. "Well, even moms need a little help around Christmas!" She rolled her eyes and laughed at her own joke, and Emma attempted the same, although her version was a little off the mark.

She figured you probably had to be decidedly more confident in your ability to cope before you could really laugh at yourself.

"That's our shortbread!" Henry shouted to a little girl who'd come to survey the offerings, but she ignored where he was pointing and, instead, picked him up in a bear hug.

"Look I can pick you up Henry!" she said enthusiastically, while her tired-looking and heavily pregnant mother chided her. "Alex, honey, don't pick up the kids that aren't ours. If you break them I'm not replacing them."

The woman gave Emma a small smile before reaching over, somewhat awkwardly, to place a plate of carrot sticks and hummus on the table.

"I want to pick you up now!" Henry shouted at Alex, but she'd gone off to talk to another girl who stood rather quietly and obediently beside her, slightly terrifying-looking, mother. Emma had already sized that one up as a possible tiger mother and had mostly managed to steer clear of her, lest she end up admitting that, no, Henry wasn't enrolled in any after-school maths programs or music lessons.

A small boy with huge dark eyes dressed as Obi-Wan Kenobi squeezed his way towards the table, put down a plate of something delicious and then scuttled silently back to the corner to stand with his equally silent mother. Emma kind of knew how she felt.

And then Roland appeared dressed, as Henry had predicted, in his pyjamas. "Mom, why didn't I wear my pjs?" Henry asked her.

"Well, you wanted a costume."

"Yeah, I know," Henry said, sadly. "But it would have been cool to wear pjs all day."

"But it's cooler to be Ironman."

Henry looked down as his red suit sadly. "I guess."

Emma braced herself, waiting for him to break down and admit that he hated _everything_ about the outfit he was wearing, but he rallied, and instead ran over to Roland. She should have expected what came next.

"Roland! My Mom made shortbread! Santa's little helper showed her how!"

"Elves?" Roland asked, at about the same decibel level as a plane taxiing down the runway.

"Yeah," Henry said, with a bravado that then failed him. "I guess," he added, looking to Emma for confirmation.

"Something like that," she said, not wanting to hang Henry out to dry completely.

The conversation was cut short anyway, by Roland's mom bringing her offering to the table. She knew this woman's name at least, Regina. She was the one who organised the class activities and seemed to have a finger in every pie, plus a job and the time to make…Emma peered at the enormous platter she'd just deposited.

"Apple turnovers," Regina said, to a mother who was standing nearby, being used as a climbing frame by her rather energetic Spiderman suit-wearing son, who was chanting "Swing me like Daddy!"

"Philip, not right now," the woman said, nodding in response to Regina's announcement.

"Henry's got shitbread," Roland told his mother, and her eyes widened dramatically. Emma might have been tempted to laugh if she'd thought anything about this whole ordeal was a laughing matter.

"Shortbread!" Henry corrected. "You know, because it's just small."

"Ohhh. Right." Regina gave Henry a warm smile, which, to Emma's mind, seemed to be genuine. "And did you help your mom, Henry?"

"Well, I did, but we made cookies and the M&Ms were lost in a fire, so then Santa's helper came and showed Mom the shortbread, because…you know. They come for Christmas things. If you need them." Henry looked thoughtful for a moment. "I wonder if Rudolf brought him? Mom did you…?"

"No," Emma said quickly. "No Rudolf."

"That's quite a story," Regina said sounding bemused by Henry's ramblings.

"OK, well I gotta run. See you kid, enjoy your party." Emma knew not to expect a hug goodbye these days, but some acknowledgment might have been nice. Instead Henry was declaring loudly that there were _two_ shortbread stars for everyone and they couldn't be greedy, and he gave Emma a half-wave, half-nod instead.

Emma didn't make eye-contact with anyone else on the way out. She'd done her part, put a plate on the table and they couldn't expect any more than that, could they?

Except that somewhere in her mind Emma thought that maybe they did.

Still, when she picked Henry up that evening, later than normal again because she was just trying to get a few more jobs in before Christmas, he was still excited about the party. "They ate it all Mom, and Ms Dunbroch, she said shortbread's actually Scottish! Did you know that? Did Santa's helper tell you? Is that why you made it?"

"Oh, uh…probably. It's traditional. Apparently."

"OK. Well Ms Dunbroch said it reminded her of home, did you have it in your home then? When you were a kid?"

"Not so much." Emma tried to keep the details of her childhood, not exactly a secret, but at least on a strict need to know basis. There could be nothing worse, she'd decided, than your own kid finding out how dreadful the world could be through your own experiences. Henry knew that she'd been an orphan but the details could wait for some time in the future. Or maybe never.

But preoccupied with steering Henry away from her own Christmas traditions, Emma hadn't noticed exactly who was arriving at the apartment building's front door at the same time she and Henry were. Somehow she even registered Henry saying "Mom! Mom! It's the guy with no hand!" just a few seconds too late to stop herself from almost walking straight into Killian, who was standing with a smile on his face holding the door open for them.

Oh.

"Hi," Emma said, hoping that Henry would just get with the program and stick to being friendly and polite.

Henry, however, had other ideas. "Mom," he hissed. "Mom…do you know him?"

"We have met," Killian supplied, following them through the door to the entryway. "I'm Killian Jones, and you're Henry."

"Yeah…" Henry said, thoughtfully. "So that means you're a…" He turned to Emma. "Um…quaint…ants?"

"Acquaintance," Emma corrected.

"Yeah! So that means I can say hello and be polite, but if you say you have a puppy, I can't go to look at the puppy." He looked at Killian seriously. "Do you have a puppy?"

"Sadly, no," Killian replied, with a chuckle.

"Oh. Oh well. I have a cat, but he's not a very good cat."

"Yes. I have encountered your cat."

"Have you?" Henry sounded like that was the most outrageous statement ever and Killian glanced over his head to Emma, frowning. She didn't really know how to convey what was going on or why she hadn't mentioned him being there, and so she quickly glanced away.

"Uh…through the door, once. I needed to speak to your mother," Killian said quickly.

"Huh. Mostly he just hides under my bed and tries to kill me," Henry replied.

"He's not _that_ bad, Henry." Emma realised that defending Charming was a lost cause, but she'd picked him so she felt honour bound to stand up for him even though Henry's assessment wasn't entirely wrong.

"He took my _Star Wars_ sock and now it has a hole in it," Henry said solemnly, and then he glanced at Killian's hand. "Were you in a fight?"

Emma turned and pressed the button for the elevator, hard. This was going south fast and exit seemed like a good option.

"Well, you could say it was an epic battle between man and machine…" Killian began, and Henry's eyes widened.

"Like, a robot?"

"No. More like a forklift. Work accident." He shrugged and glanced over at Emma who hoped she wasn't supposed to add something to that.

"Oh. Oh well." Clearly bored of that subject, Henry moved on. "We had a party today and there was shortbread. Mom made it. With one of Santa's little helpers. They come you know. With reindeer and _everything_!"

"Do they now?" Killian looked over at Emma as they entered the, finally arrived, elevator and she shrugged and felt a little deflated. It had been nice taking the credit while she could and, OK, she'd played on her son's desire to believe almost anything you told him about Christmas at this time of year, probably scared that if he didn't believe Santa wouldn't come, but that didn't make her a bad mother, did it?

Would it have been worse if she'd confessed to a late-night baking rendezvous with men who were really only acquaintances?

"Yup. They do, and they make shortbread…which is actually a cookie, not bread."

"Well your mum must have been on Santa's good list if she got so much help."

"Yeah…I guess." Henry didn't seem at all sure about that fact. Emma just tried to refrain from making eye contact with Killian; she felt bad about the whole shortbread thing and worse now that he'd found out she was claiming sole credit. Well, her and some mythical creature she'd invented.

It was hardly mother of the year material.

Thankfully the elevator doors opened on their floor and, due to Killian's gallantry in allowing them out first, Emma was able to scoot to her own apartment door before he was barely in the hallway. "Well, see you around!" she called, as cheerfully as she could over her shoulder.

"I hope I will," he called back in response.

Emma could only hope the opposite was true but it soon became obvious that she very clearly wasn't on Santa's good list because the only person she kept bumping into over the next few days was Killian Jones.

First she and Henry ran into Killian in the grocery store, when they were making a last-minute dash for milk and other things Henry deemed essential. Henry trotted along beside Killian, clearly interested in what he was putting into his cart, and treated him to a long explanation of why food in boxes is mostly bad for you gleaned, Emma thought, from that time they talked about healthy eating at school.

Eventually she managed to pull Henry away, pointing that Killian was an adult and thankful that he seemed to take it all with good grace, and leave the store.

After that it seemed like Killian was everywhere. In the coffee shop she dropped into once after leaving Henry at school, in the entryway to the building several times and once at Target when she was making a desperate attempt to get her Christmas shopping done.

This time it was Killian who was interested in what was in Emma's cart. "That's, uh, a lot of Lego, love," he said, gesturing to the boxes she'd grabbed off the shelves displaying the latest ranges of _Star Wars_ merchandise.

"Yeah…" Emma agreed, surveying her choices. "I'm just hoping he'll know how to put all of this together, some of it says you're supposed to be older than 5 and I always get lost following the instructions."

She locked eyes with Killian and there was a moment where she thought he'd offer to help out, or maybe he'd have said yes if she suggested they might need his expertise, but neither happened and the moment lapsed and Emma ended up saying a slightly awkward goodbye before carrying on with her task.

And so the next time she saw Killian, Emma almost didn't say anything to him at all afraid it might be just another awkward encounter. But it was late, and she'd been left hanging in a tiny bar where she'd arranged to meet one of the bail-jumpers she was trying to track. The guy had been a no-show, but, when she went to leave, she spied none other than Killian Jones sitting at the bar.

Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to go over and keep him company? She probably did still owe him a drink.

And maybe she was feeling a bit low herself, having tracked down a woman that morning, only to have to drag her away from the kids she was so desperate to spend Christmas with. Sure, jumping bail doesn't scream Happy Holidays, but she was still someone's mom and it didn't exactly make Emma's heart soar to watch her being bundled into a police car.

But when she fronted up to Killian and offered to buy him a drink, he turned her down. "I'm fine with this, love," he said, pointing to a glass of water.

"Wow. Cheap date, huh?" Emma realised her mistake as soon as she saw the odd look in his eyes, and the frown that no doubt meant he was wondering if she was asking him on a date.

"I mean…just, well never mind," Emma tried clarifying, but only made a hash of it. "I'm only here because I got stood up." She turned to the bartender who'd come over and ordered a glass of wine, before turning back to see Killian looking her over appraisingly. Oh, yeah. She'd forgotten that, in an effort not to give the game away when the guy she was supposed to meet here turned up, she'd put on her best date dress, the black leather sheath, and her highest heels.

Because no one ever expected the woman in heels to be able to sprint after them, did they?

"I can't imagine the man who wouldn't show up for you, love," Killian said, sounding a little odd about the whole thing.

"It was a work date…thing…" Emma tried explaining again, but realised she wasn't making it sound any better. She managed to clamber onto the stool next to Killian's, despite the tight skirt and heels, and shook her head. "I'm a bail bondsperson. I grab the people who've tried to make a run for it, but the trick to getting them is to make them come to you. Hence the fake date."

"So it was merely a fake ditching then? Well that's a relief, I thought there was something terribly wrong with the world for a moment."

"Nope." Emma accepted her wine from the bartender. "Well, bottoms up. You, uh, sure you don't want to join me?"

Killian shook his head. "As much as it pains me to make a beautiful woman drink alone I'm afraid that's not something I do anymore."

"What? Drink."

Killian toyed with the glass in front of him. "Uh, yeah. You might say I learned my lesson on that front. There's a reason they say not to operate heavy machinery." He held up the hook at the end of his left arm, and then it let it fall back into his lap.

"I'm sorry." Emma knew it was a perfectly inadequate response, but she didn't really think there was a better one to that kind of tale.

"Ah, well. At least I have no one to blame but myself." The words rang a little hollow in their cheerfulness, but Emma appreciated the sentiment behind them. She'd learnt a long time ago that there was no good wallowing in your own misfortune, you picked yourself up and you carried on.

"Hell of a wake-up call, though."

"But a timely one. At least, that's what I tell myself."

Emma nodded. She'd seen enough people trying to drink themselves to death when she was bouncing around the foster system. People who got careless not just with themselves, but with others, were worse. She was glad she'd hadn't completely misjudged this man she'd allowed into her home on a whim one night.

"So, no more forklifts?" she asked.

"No more forklifts. Now I sit in a portacabin and push around pieces of paper that describe the things they're unloading at the docks. It's not exactly a stellar career, but it pays the bills and it could be worse."

"It could always be worse," Emma agreed, and raised her glass. Killian did the same and they clinked them together, before Emma took a large gulp of her wine and maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was something else but it didn't feel nearly as awkward sitting here with Killian as it had just a minute or so earlier.

Maybe he was growing on her?

There was a shout from a table in the corner, full of people wearing Santa hats and looking a little worse for wear. Probably some work colleagues, Emma decided, come out to celebrate. "So you got plans for the holidays?" she asked Killian.

"Not really. My brother Liam's in England still. His wife Elsa is Danish, so they don't really want to stray too far from her family. So, uh…I'm sure something'll turn up."

He gave her a smile and took a sip from his water and Emma was struck with the idea that, once again, there was a moment where she should offer…oh dammit. Before she over-thought it any longer, Emma just started talking.

"Well, you know I'm sure Santa's little helper gets to enjoy his day of rest. Although if you're any good with Lego I know where you might be needed!" Killian laughed at that and Emma was happy that she managed to knock him out of the sombre mood.

"I'm sorry," she continued. "About that whole…thing, with Henry and not telling him you'd helped. I just wanted…"

"No, it's OK, love."

"It's not really. But I think I just wanted him to believe that I could do it because a plate of cookies, not a big deal right? Except that when you're five school is your whole world and if you're the kid who shows up empty handed then everyone knows, don't they? They know that no one loves you enough to make the cookies in the first place."

There was silence, and Emma worried that she'd shown too much of her own hand with that little tirade. It had somehow just bubbled out of her.

"Yeah," Killian said, gently. "But luckily Henry's got you." His voice was soft and warm, and he looked at her in a way that made Emma want to just keep on talking, to tell him everything.

But if pity got you a foot in the door, it certainly didn't make people stick around. And she wasn't about to just roll over and give up.

"So, speaking of Henry, I better get back." Emma said, before quickly swigging what was left in her wineglass and pushing off the barstool. "I will, uh, see you around, Killian. And thanks again, for the help."

"Anytime, love."

If Emma thought that the smile he gave her as she made her rather hasty exit was a little tighter and less comfortable than it had been earlier, then she didn't dwell on it. Instead she turned her mind to the next few days; she just needed to track the guy who'd left her hanging tonight, collect her fee, and have a nice Christmas with Henry.

No problem at all.

That was, until Henry put a small spanner in the works the next morning when Emma was trying to finalise her mental list of who she still had to buy gifts for. "So…Ms Dunbroch, Target or Starbucks?"

"What?" Henry asked, looking up from the cereal box he was attempting to read, his mouth moving as he sounded out the words.

"Which giftcard do you want to buy your teacher?"

"Oh. Uh…I wanna get her some shortbread."

"Really? You think she'd rather have that than coffee? I don't know, you guys are pretty high-energy."

Henry gave Emma a fondly exasperated look that wouldn't have been out of place on a thirteen year old and which made her feel oddly out of step with her son. School was great and all, but when had he gotten so grown up?

"No, Mom. She liked the shortbread because it reminded her of home, and, you know, people like thinking about home and stuff at Christmas. Plus you know Santa's helpers now, so I'm sure they could do it for you. If you have to work tonight again, that is."

The dose of maternal guilt he'd tried to give her, plus his very real belief in something Emma had thrown out there on the spot, made her realise that Henry was still, in fact, just a little boy who wanted to do something nice for the woman who was teaching him not to write a b when he was supposed to put a d, so _fine_. She could probably make shortbread.

"Yep, if that's what you want to give her. I might get a giftcard too though, just as a backup. OK?"

Henry nodded, and looked far more excited than Emma felt, and that was before her day turned to complete crap when she spent most of it in dogged pursuit of the guy who'd never shown up at the bar, certain that if she could just grab him, then she could concentrate on Christmas.

Eventually she tracked him to his girlfriend's house which figured, given he also had a wife and was clearly not above making dates with total strangers over the internet. When he was in custody she didn't feel elated at the prospect of the extra cash for Christmas, just stressed about picking Henry up late from the babysitter's and still having to do those last minute errands with a tired and grumpy five year old in tow.

So by the time she did make it home with her purchases, Henry having been bribed with a trip to McDonald's sometime earlier, it was all she could do to just drop all her bags and throw herself on her bed. But she still had one last task to complete and, after hustling a sleepy Henry into bed, Emma headed back into the kitchen to try to figure out how on earth she could replicate the shortbread on her own.

Which was ridiculous, she realised, pulling her battered measuring jug out of the cupboard, when she had a perfectly good helper just down the hall. She just had to hope that Killian was home when she knocked on his door.

Or that she didn't lose her nerve before she did.

He answered too quickly for Emma to change her mind, and the fact he actually looked pleased that she was there just made her feel more like a heel for asking for his help, again.

"Uh, yeah…so, uh…turns out Henry has promised his teacher more shortbread, and I was kinda hoping…"

"That Santa's little helper might be available?" Killian said. "Say no more, I'm at your disposal."

"Well, thanks." Emma didn't linger out in the hall, but walked back to her own apartment, Killian following her and heading straight for the kitchen as he entered.

Mostly they worked in silence this time, but it was a companionable one, or, at least, Emma thought it was. Killian did take the time to complain about the scarcity of measuring cups again, but he was good-natured about her lack of equipment and gently encouraging when she tried to do more of the actual work herself this time.

Mostly, Emma thought, it was just nice having him around.

The baking sheet of shortbread had just been placed in the oven when a sleepy Henry padded into the kitchen and caught Emma by surprise. "Mommy, I need a glass of water," he said, barely opening his eyes and consequently just about walking into Killian's leg in the process.

"Why're you here?" Henry asked, blinking a few times, as Emma filled a glass from the tap.

"I'm, um…" Killian looked at Emma for confirmation. She handed Henry his water and decided it was time to come clean.

"Killian's here to help with the shortbread for Ms Dunbroch." She expected there might be a barrage of follow up questions to that information, but, instead, Henry drank all the water in a noisy gulp, handed the glass back to her, and left the kitchen.

"I'm not sure he was completely awake," Emma muttered, not completely certain if it was a bad thing to be glad that she seemed to have got away with it scot free, although she wasn't even really certain what it was she had to get away with.

Was having a strange man in the house a crime? Did Killian even count as a strange man anymore if Henry considered him an acquaintance?

Why did she had to be so crap at baking in the first place?

Realising that none of these questions were going to be answered immediately, Emma did the only thing she could think of to put the, now slightly startled looking, Killian at ease. "So…you want some cocoa while those bake?"

"Sure. That'd be great, love."

"You know, you don't have to do that with me," Emma said, pulling out cups and looking at Killian over her shoulder.

"Do…what now?"

"That whole thing with the loves, and, I mean, the accent is bad enough, but I guess you can't help it. You just don't have to lay on all the other stuff as well. I'm sure it's a big hit with the women around here, but me…" Emma stopped, having realised she was starting to protest a little too much.

And then, when she turned and noticed Killian looking decidedly embarrassed and maybe even blushing slightly, she wished she hadn't bothered to say anything.

"I can assure you, lo…uh. Well, nothing I say these days is that much of a hit with the ladies as you put it."

Emma was about to say that couldn't possibly be true because, while she might not be queuing up to best friends with all the other mothers at Henry's school, she'd heard the talk. Specifically she'd heard the reactions to the guy from the _Fifty Shades_ movie or the other one, the red-headed guy from that thing set in Scotland that Emma intended to one day get around to watching herself.

An accent, and a handsome face, got you not just a foot in the door, but a crap ton of female adoration to boot. Emma knew that and she couldn't figure out why Killian was bothering to deny it when she noticed the movement of his left arm, the way he tried to tuck it in beside his body and then, when he figured out that's where her gaze had travelled to, he gave her a small wave with the prosthesis.

"Seriously? It makes that much of a difference?" Emma asked, not really thinking through the implications of asking that outright.

"Well, yes. I suppose so. I mean…" Killian paused and looked like he was considering his next words. "You tell me."

With the ball back in her court, Emma felt a little at a disadvantage. Sure, it wouldn't hurt to give the guy a small confidence boost, but she didn't want to end up accidentally flirting with him if she could help it.

Because that wasn't what this was about at all.

"Well it doesn't matter to me at all," Emma said, as emphatically as she could, and it was hard not to notice how Killian's whole posture changed at her words, and so she added. "I mean, you can still bake, right?"

Killian chuckled along with her, but she got the impression that his heart wasn't quite in it. She couldn't blame him, although she'd meant what she said and his missing hand made very little difference to her. A life spent wondering what was going on in people's minds, whether everyone was like the foster family that had returned her as surplus to requirements at the age of 3, always wondering if people's intentions towards her were exactly as they stated…well, it was nice to have something out in the open for once.

And, sure, a missing hand wasn't exactly the same as the guy who promised you a life together and then bailed when the second blue line showed up on the pregnancy test, but Emma was hardly looking for any commitment from Killian.

After all, what she really wanted was the shortbread, wasn't it?

Emma carried the cocoa through to the living room and Killian followed her, although he stopped in his tracks near the sofa. "Should I check underneath there for Charming?"

"No, I think you're good. He took one of the Christmas ornaments off the tree earlier and is currently murdering it under Henry's bed, I think. It's a busy night for him."

"Well if you say the coast is clear."

"Yep, only me."

"And you're not going to bite?" The question came out of the blue and Emma turned sharply and nearly collided with Killian who was sitting far closer than Emma had realised. It was…unexpected.

"No," she agreed. "I don't bite."

Killian reached towards the coffee table to pick up his cocoa and his face came even closer to Emma's in the process. He had very long eyelashes, she realised, and a nice mouth. And, if she leaned forward ever so slightly, she could probably kiss him.

For about a second Emma thought very hard about doing just that, before she decided, just as firmly, that it was her worst idea of the day and that included the moment when she'd decided to buy Henry the large soda which had subsequently led to at least three unplanned bathroom stops.

"So, how did you end up here? In the States…Boston, I mean?" Emma asked, leaning away from Killian a little.

"Oh, you know. Followed someone over."

"And then?"

Killian sighed and looked, for a moment, like he wasn't going to add anything else. He took a sip of his cocoa and said, "Well, it's the usual tale, love. Didn't work out."

"Oh." Emma sipped her cocoa and wondered what subject they could try next, or whether it might be better to just let conversation lapse until the cocoa was finished and Killian could leave.

But then he said, suddenly, "You asked me a question, and I should tell you the truth, I suppose."

Emma was tempted to protest; with anyone else getting to the truth was always a bonus, but here it felt a little too intimate. Emma wasn't entirely certain that she was ready to deal in truths with Killian.

Because if that's what he offered her, what on earth was she going to have to reciprocate with?

"It was my wife, Milah. She had a job offer and I came too, thought it would be a grand adventure. But while she was doing so well at work, promotions and the like, I was just…stagnating. Working at the docks, day in day out, wondering why on earth Milah was even with me, why she hadn't just left my arse behind in England. And the drinking, that had started out as a way to escape the idea that she might figure out I wasn't worth it and leave me, in the end it was thing that pushed her out the door. I couldn't blame her, but I wasn't ready to blame myself either. And then there was too much drink…and well, you know what happened there."

"That sounds rough."

"Aye. It wasn't my finest moment. And when you wake up in hospital to find that you're missing a hand because you couldn't lay off the drink for a whole shift at work, it's funny how they don't think having another drink to make you feel better will actually fix all your problems."

"Ah. Yeah."

"It was a rude awakening, but a long overdue one. I don't mind living with the reminder most days, but it's difficult when sometimes people can't see past it."

Emma could understand that; sometimes it felt like she'd spent her whole life trying to leave her past behind. First the dark days of the foster system, then her heartbreak with Neal. Not really certain of what to say, Emma opted for doing something. She put her mug down on the coffee table and walked over to the chest in the corner of the room, pulled something out and returned to the couch, where Killian gave her a quizzical look as she held it up.

"It's my baby blanket," Emma explained. "It's what they found me in."

"Found you?"

"Yeah. I was, uh…well they left me, my parents…mother…I don't know. It made the paper, you know, 'Baby left by road', and all of that. But the upshot was that I spent my childhood in the foster system and, although I might not have to carry this around with me, it's always there, you know? I'm always trying to leave behind the girl who wasn't good enough for anyone, but I just don't think I ever will."

Killian looked at Emma carefully, as though he was evaluating her in a new light, and Emma was a little afraid that she'd done exactly the thing she wanted to avoid, but he smiled and said "I think you're enough, Emma Swan."

And there it was again, the moment where Emma knew there was an opening, she could offer something other than late night baking and Killian would accept and they'd act like two normal, not-broken people would, but the oven started beeping, signalling that the shortbread was ready and it was back to business as Killian leapt off the sofa and offered her his hand.

"Really? You going to go all gentlemanly on me now?"

"Oh, I'm always a gentleman."

Emma followed Killian back into the kitchen where he opened the oven and pulled out the baking sheet. "I guess that's true," she conceded. "There aren't many guys who'd come to the rescue of the baking-impaired."

"And it was a particularly _dashing_ rescue," Killian agreed, picking up one of the shortbread stars. "Here. You try it."

It was a little too hot for comfortable eating, but Emma did as she was told and nibbled a point. "It's very good," she admitted, and was rewarded by a smile from Killian as he took a bite of one himself.

There was something very warm and intimate about standing around in the kitchen eating shortbread straight from the oven and it prompted Emma's curiosity about the man she was standing there with. "So…this was what it was like then? For you growing up? Wall to wall shortbread?"

Killian shrugged. "Maybe. At one time. I don't remember it all that much, but Liam says it was alright. But then my dad left, and got a new family and there was far less shortbread and a lot more shouting and, in my mother's case, drinking. It was unpleasant." He looked down at the floor. "Not really a tradition you want to pass on."

Emma nodded. "I never got to stay anywhere long enough to really figure out the traditions. Most of the time if there was something under the tree with my name on it, I counted myself lucky. Even if it was just school supplies."

"Ah, hence the Lego."

"Well, I may have gone just a little overboard, but I want…well you get it."

"And Henry's father? Does he feel that Christmas is for giving too?"

"Henry's father felt that a baby was barely for Christmas, let alone for life. He, uh…well he didn't want to be involved. Thought it would cramp his lifestyle."

"I'm sorry," Killian said, sincerely.

"Yeah, me too. But for Henry, not for me. I get that I'm better off without him but Henry doesn't know why he wasn't good enough for his dad to stick around for, and not all the Lego in the world can make that better, which sucks."

Just then a grey form materialised in the kitchen with them and regarded them with its yellow eyes.

"Do I need to be worried that the cat has come to finish me off?" Killian asked.

"No. If he really wanted to murder you, he'd lie in wait to trip you up as you walked past. This is more likely a scouting mission to make sure that we're all behaving ourselves."

To Emma's surprise, Killian knelt down and held out his hand to Charming who, after a moment's consideration, walked forward to sniff it. Killian scratched the cat behind the ears.

"I do believe I'm winning you over, mate."

"I wouldn't be so quick…" Emma's words were stopped by Killian's cry of pain as Charming decided that being petted was nice, but he really needed to sink his teeth into something.

"I was trying to warn you," she finished.

"Yeah, well. Maybe next time." Killian stood up and then looked away and scratched at his neck. "I mean, if you've a need for a baker again."

"Maybe for a whole other reason next time," Emma replied, and she wanted to add something else, something along the lines of assuring Killian that it wasn't pity that got him a foot in the door, but she didn't because that just seemed a little too…much, or something.

Instead she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, an act which took Killian a little by surprise if the way he stiffened suddenly was anything to go by, but Emma still managed to take some pleasure in pressing her lips to his check and feeling a mix of warm skin and whiskers.

Plus, he smelled nice. Some of which was the cocoa and shortbread, but there was something there too that was essentially Killian and it gave her a momentary flash of desire and egged her on to find out if he tasted good too.

But she stayed strong and pulled back. "Thanks, for the baking and stuff. And being such a good sport about the whole Santa's Helper thing."

"Oh, anytime Emma." Killian seemed a little dazed now, and Emma felt a small burst of pride at the fact that he seemed to be enjoying her attentions.

"I should you let you go," she said, stepping back and away and noticing how chilly the kitchen actually felt now the oven was cooling. "No doubt you've things to do before Christmas."

"No doubt," Killian agreed, although he didn't make a move to leave and, for a moment or two, Emma thought that he might kiss her and she didn't have to wonder what her reaction to that would be at all. But he didn't, he wished her goodnight and he left the apartment, stepping carefully around Charming in the process.

And as much as Emma felt a little lonely when he'd gone, she wasn't completely desolate. For one thing, she'd finished up her Christmas shopping now, and she had the shortbread she'd promised Henry. For another, well, there was always another day, wasn't there? He was just down the hall and she could talk to him anytime and maybe, if she was brave enough, she'd even give him the silly little Christmas gift she'd picked up earlier that evening, the one sitting wrapped under the Christmas tree.

Emma went to bed safe in the little bubble of hope she'd discovered, and woke up to a near-disaster when she realised she'd overslept and it was going to be a rush to get Henry to school.

Getting a five year old to run and eat toast at the same time is near impossible, she soon discovered, and the morning was only saved by the fact that, as it was the last day of school before the break, Ms Dunbroch seemed to have given up all pretence of teaching the kids and was standing around holding court when they arrived in class.

Emma and Henry joined the throng of people crowding around the teacher to give her gifts, Henry excitedly holding onto the shortbread which Emma had packed into a clear cellophane bag and tied with a ribbon, a Christmas card attached in which Henry had signed his name with the e backwards and the n and r looking almost identical.

"Och, that's lovely, Henry!" Ms Dunbroch said when it was Henry's turn, finally, to hand his gift over. "It'll be just like being at home." She beamed at Emma over Henry's head, and then turned back to her pupil. "So did you help your mum make it?"

Henry shook his head, which, combined with the fact he was bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement made him look a little like a badly-controlled marionette. "No, I was in bed but I know now, Ms Dunbroch, I know who Santa's helper is who helped Mom make it and it's Killian the guy who lives on our floor. He's a 'quaintance but he was in our house and he MADE THE SHORTBREAD WITH MOM!"

Emma might have known that she'd been unlikely to get away with it scot-free, but she still hadn't pictured that her downfall might come at the hands of Henry shouting to his teacher, classmates and their mothers that there'd been a strange man in her house late at night.

"Well," she murmured to Ms Dunbroch, trying to save a little face. "He's more of a friend, really."

"Really?" Henry asked. "I thought he was…but, anyway, he's Santa's helper and he helps Mom and he knows about shortbread and he's my Mom's boyfriend."

"No. No. That's not…he just wanted to help me." Emma had meant her words to be an explanation for Henry, but he'd lost interest in the whole thing and was busy craning his neck to see what Roland was up to. Instead it was the other mothers still standing there, Regina and Mary Margaret and probably even Ashley, who heard and the worst part, the _absolute_ worst part was that Emma saw the way they were now looking at her.

Emma had said it wasn't pity that got Killian a foot in the door, but maybe she'd been mistaken about who exactly was pitying who. Because she could see it in the eyes of the women looking at her now and of course it all made sense; the single mother who couldn't even bake, the one rescued by the man who assumed she was an easy target because who wouldn't be desperate for some guy's attention if they were in her situation?

Almost on auto-pilot, Emma said goodbye to Henry and hurried out of the classroom and into the cold air outside, which didn't clear her head at all. All she could think of was how stupid she'd been to ever think he was just there to help her out. There had to be another angle; there always was.

She'd just been gullible enough to overlook it this time.

Well she wouldn't fall into that trap again.

Emma made it through the morning, tying up some lose ends at work and, most importantly, picking up her last check before the holidays. She thought she'd put it out of her mind by the time she was ready to pick Henry up from school, hoped she'd never have to think about Killian Jones and what a total idiot she'd been about him ever again.

But it was pretty obvious in the way the other women were looking at her that she'd now been tagged 'desperate single mother with questionable choices in men', because that was what the group was missing, wasn't it?

She hoped to just get in, get Henry and get out, but he was having far too much fun and didn't want to leave. There was some kind of wrestling match going on with Neal and Emma was tempted to just pick him up and haul him out of the classroom, but it would have meant trying to avoid Neal's mom Mary Margaret in the process, and she wasn't up for that.

So, instead, she did was she was best at and lurked on the fringes of the group, hoping her target would come close enough to nab him. It was a strategy that worked all the time with bail jumpers, but proved less successful with five year old boys because, just when he got free of Neal, Roland called Henry over and he headed off in totally the other direction to talk to Roland's mom.

And that was just fan-freaking-tastic because no way was Emma going anywhere near _that_ woman.

Except that after a moment or two the whole posse, Henry, Roland and Regina started heading Emma's way and there was nowhere for her to flee to.

"Emma," Regina began, and she braced herself for what might follow. "I was just saying to Henry that we're having a little gathering at my place tomorrow now the kids are off school, they can play and we can have a catch-up. I thought it would be nice to see everyone when we're not rushing off somewhere else."

"Oh, uh. Sure." Emma felt decidedly on the back-foot; this wasn't what she'd been expecting at all.

"So you'll come?" Regina looked at her expectantly, Henry looked at her pleadingly and mouthed "Please Mom!" just to really sell it.

"Oh, well. Fine. I guess." She took out her phone and made a note of Regina's contact details and address and figured that she could maybe cancel tomorrow, surely Christmas-induced stress was a reasonable excuse.

"Don't you want to go?" Henry asked her, as soon as they were finally clear of the classroom and only after he'd shoved a pile of Christmas-themed artwork at Emma and gone back for his third hug from Ms Dunbroch.

"I do…it's just, kinda busy around the holidays. And isn't it fun when it's just you and me?"

Henry shrugged. "I guess. But Roland wanted to show me his room, and I thought it might be cool. I don't want you to be grumpy though."

"I'm not grumpy." That did sound grumpy, Emma thought, but stressed, tired and worried wasn't the same as grumpy, was it?

"Yeah. You are." Maybe it was to a five year old.

"Sorry…I just…it's a little tricky, right now." Emma wasn't going to lay any of the stuff about Killian out for Henry.

He nodded wisely. "That's why I thought you might want to go and hang out with the other moms, so you can all talk about it…and stuff. There'll be cookies…and coffee and, you know, mom-stuff."

Emma had no way to tell Henry that sitting in a room with a bunch of women she barely knew, the only connection between them the fact that their kids were in the same class, was her personal idea of hell. And so she didn't. "Sounds great, kid."

"Told you."

Emma didn't have the heart to correct him, not this close to Christmas, anyway. But she spent the rest of the day unsettled and she couldn't tell if it was because she was worried about the next day, or unsure what to do about Killian.

And then, after they'd eaten pizza for dinner and she'd managed to get Henry into his pyjamas and his teeth brushed and all of him into bed while he babbled at a hundred miles a minute about how cool it was going to be at Roland's house, and it was only Emma now with her own thoughts which was the absolute worst place for her to be, there was a soft knock on the door and it became clear which problem she'd have to deal with first.

She wasn't entirely certain what her expression was when she opened the door but, judging from the way Killian reacted, it couldn't possibly have been welcoming. He looked like he'd immediately regretted his decision to stop by and his eyes moved from her face, to the floor, and then in the direction of his own door as Emma thought he probably tried to gauge the possibility of making a run for it.

"So, uh…sorry. I just wanted to stop by and see if, if you had any baking requirements?"

He looked at her hopefully and she was tempted, really, really tempted, to just open the door wider and let him in.

But the faces of the other women came back to remind her that she was simply a single mother, too stupid to know when she was being played.

"You know what? I'm actually good, tonight. Henry's teacher really liked that last batch, but that's it for now. And, uh, it's been a long couple of days…I was just about to head to bed. So good night, Killian. See you around."

It was a complete dismissal and she watched as all hope faded from his eyes. "Yeah, see you around Emma."

Shutting the door, Emma stayed rooted to the spot for a moment, toying with the notion of opening it again and calling him back but she wouldn't, she just wouldn't, be what they thought she was. She'd spent too long trying, desperately, not to be the girl who was stupid enough to get herself knocked up by the wrong guy.

It would be fine. It's not like she needed him anyway.

Henry was far too excited about the gathering or party or whatever it was the next morning to actually stand still for any length of time. It took him three attempts to get his arm into his coat and he practically skipped down the sidewalk ahead of Emma, occasionally turning his head to shout back over his shoulder "Roland says we can go in his room but his baby sister can't because she's just a baby."

Emma knew enough at this point to realise that pointing out that was mean would just be met with derision, and that any other comment would be superfluous. Henry didn't need affirmation that Roland's room would be cool, because Roland had already said it was.

She almost wished that she could go back to the certainties of being a kid, but then Emma wasn't entirely sure her upbringing had ever given her that kind of world view. Nothing was certain when you didn't know when you'd be returned, passed on, over-looked. It did give her some small comfort to see that Henry didn't have the same problem.

But that comfort was lost as soon as they arrived at Roland's house. "It's so big! Mom, look!" Henry practically squealed, and Emma could indeed see that this was nothing like the apartment she shared with Henry.

Maybe Roland hadn't been over-stating matters at all.

Emma was reconsidering the whole idea when a voice from behind them yelled "Henry! HENRY!" and Neal came barrelling over, nearly knocking Henry over, and Neal's mom, Mary Margaret, caught up and fell into step beside Emma and there really was no escape now.

"He's been up since 6am waiting to get here," Mary Margaret confided, as they walked up the steps to the front door hung with an enormous wreath. "Apparently I don't get ready fast enough."

"Henry was pretty much the same," Emma replied, as both boys pushed in front of their mothers in their eagerness to get inside. The door opened and they just about fell on top of Roland who announced at top volume "HENRY AND NEAL ARE HERE!"

Regina appeared and smiled at her guests. "Come in, and Roland, indoor voice only please."

Roland gave his mother an exasperated look and then turned back to the other boys, "Come look at my room!"

Henry barely managed to get his coat off and shoved at Emma before he hurried up the stairs after the other boys, trailed by a girl who had to be about three years old, and who was clearly not a baby, and at whom Roland kept shouting "Rosie, you can't come, you're a baby!"

"Well, they seem to be happy," Regina said, holding her arms out for everyone's coats. "Let's go through shall we?"

She left the coats in a side room and then led the way through to a beautifully, but austerely, decorated sitting room where everything was black, white or silver. Some of the other mothers were already in there, the heavily pregnant Ashley accompanied by her younger son to whom she kept hissing "Michael, don't touch!"

Emma perched in a chair while Mary Margaret settled herself in a loveseat next to Ashley and let out a sigh. "I have been looking forward to this all week!" she announced to the room at large.

"I know what you mean," Regina replied. "This is my last moment to get it all off my chest before my family descend."

"Your sister still flying in from out West?" someone else asked…was she Aurora, Philip's mom?

"I hope not," Regina replied, carrying over a tray laden with coffee and beautiful, tiny sugar cookies. "Last I heard she was far too busy to spend any time with the likes of me and I couldn't be happier to tell you the truth."

Mary Margaret nodded. "I know, I'm dreading David's father arriving. He's never forgiven David for leaving his college girlfriend for me. She's a lawyer."

There were nods all round and Emma hoped she wasn't expected to contribute to the conversation because, clearly, this was some kind of bonding through sharing and Emma didn't do either of those things. Not that she had anything about family to share, anyway. Mostly she just felt left out.

It wasn't the first time, but even after all these years it still didn't feel particularly nice. Her only saving grace was that it didn't seem to affect Henry in any way, he was off with his buddies and none the wiser that this wasn't Emma's idea of a fun time.

The shouts from upstairs grew more raucous as time wore on and Emma nursed her cup of coffee for as long as she could, hoping that if she was occupied no one would notice she wasn't joining in the conversation. The topics drifted from the trouble with family at Christmas to how hard husbands are to buy for, to how lucky they were to get Ms Dunbroch as their classroom teacher, to whether or not skiing was a suitable activity for the under-10's.

None of these were topics Emma felt happy to pass judgement on and so she sat quietly while even the only other mother who'd up until now remained silent, Guinevere, joined in, although most of what she said seemed to be an apology for her completely serviceable English.

The minutes started to drag.

And, sure, maybe she was out of the firing line in terms of judgement from these women but that was only because she was out of the loop completely. Emma was starting to wonder if she could offer up an excuse about late Christmas shopping or a turkey that required defrosting when the doorbell rang and, after Regina went to answer it, a latecomer appeared in the room with them.

"Mulan! You made it!" Mary Margaret called out, as an exhausted-looking woman arrived in the room and half-collapsed into the chair next to Emma.

"I did, but it was a battle. Why my mother has to insist on taking us Christmas shopping the day before Christmas is anyone's guess, and then she didn't like anything poor Isabella picked anyway. Tried to steer her towards the educational toys because, as my mother likes to say, 'we don't know what kind of genetic material she has'. Like I bought her at a discount store! And she says that when Isabella can hear. She knows about the donor, but I don't think she has to hear it put quite in those terms."

"Sounds dreadfully familiar," Regina muttered, passing over a cup of coffee.

"I just wish I didn't have to prove to her all the time that there is nothing wrong with Isabella; that she has two loving parents and that's all that matters. But if I thought that my mother made things tough when Ruby and I got married, it was nothing compared to when we had Isabella." She paused and looked over at Regina. "I'm just glad she's here and is off with Alex getting to be a little girl again, and not viewed as the weird science experiment my mother thinks she is."

Mary Margaret reached over and stroked Mulan's arm and there was a murmuring of sympathy in the room. Even Emma, who couldn't contemplate what having a disapproving mother was like, felt bad for Mulan and, more importantly, for Isabella who'd done nothing wrong.

Mulan raised a wan smile, but her eyes drifted back to the cup in her hands. "The worst part," she said quietly, "Is that sometimes I even wonder myself, whether I need to worry about what she might inherit from her donor father. And I know it's ridiculous, and Ruby tells me it's ridiculous, and I love my daughter and never want to hurt her…but I just want to be the best mother for her, and I don't know if the right way to do that is to just ignore the fact she has a genetic heritage I don't know about, or to make allowances for it."

There was silence for a few moments, even the sympathetic murmurs had stopped. It was clear no one knew quite what to do with a confession like that.

And then Mulan looked up, and smiled. "You know, it does actually feel good to say that out loud."

"Well, I don't think we're in any position to judge someone trying to be a good mother," Ashley said.

"I would just like to lose the whole evil part," Regina suddenly announced. "I mean it's a terrible stereotype isn't it? The evil step mother. But I love those kids, and I like to think that having survived my own mother I know exactly what _not_ to do. I do wonder though…whether I can ever be enough for them." She sighed and looked out into the middle distance.

"I just want Neal to grow up to be a good man," Mary Margaret said. "But I worry sometimes that I'm spoiling him because…well I gave a baby up when I was very young. It was the best thing, for both of us. But I do wonder if sometimes I don't treat Neal differently to how I would if he was really my first child."

After that the floodgates opened. Aurora was concerned because her husband, Philip, travelled so much for work and she fretted that he wasn't spending enough time with Philip Jr, but didn't want to risk their relationship further by forcing them to be together.

Ashley was due to give birth to twins in the New Year and didn't know how on earth she was going to manage four kids under 6.

Guinevere was trying to bring her son up to be multi-lingual, but worried that spreading him between two cultures meant he'd never fit in anywhere.

It was certainly eye opening for Emma. In her mind these women had existed as something other than real people, with real hopes and fears for their children. They'd been invulnerable and other-worldly, almost. Consummate practitioners of the ancient art of motherhood.

Instead they had just as many worries as she had. And, what was more interesting from Emma's point of view, was that they seemed to find some relief in talking about them.

"I just…" Emma began, buoyed along by the confessional tide that had swept the room. "It's hard. It's just me, and I hope…I hope that Henry doesn't mind that I couldn't make it better for him."

"Oh, honey. You're doing great!" Emma wanted to shake off Ashley's praise because it couldn't possibly be true, but at the same time, it did make her feel just a tiny bit better about everything. If someone else had said it about her, then maybe there was a grain of truth in it.

And there was something to be said, Emma had to admit, for taking down your guard for just a minute. She'd spent so long building herself an armour, one that would stop anyone ever hurting her again, but it could also be a prison and it ended up feeling a little lonely after a while. And Emma was tired of feeling lonely and always wondering if she was doing OK but having no one to tell her she was.

"And we're always here to help if you need us," Regina added. "I'm sure Roland would love to have Henry over for a sleepover sometime."

Emma would have to think about that idea; accepting a few words of confirmation were one thing, but leaving her son with strangers was something else altogether.

But she smiled and let the conversation turn to other matters. Regina talked about meeting her husband Robin when he came to install her kitchen with a sick baby in tow. "I just assumed he was incompetent for the first half a day and then I realised that he was trying to do everything. Of course he should have confessed, preferably before I yelled at him, and definitely before Rosie threw up on my lapel, but I forgave him. Eventually."

Mary Margaret said that she and her husband David had decided to re-do their rather ill-fated first date when they'd gone to see one of the 'not so good' _Star Wars_ movies, as she put it. David had played hooky from work so they could see the latest movie without Neal. "I feel a little guilty, but it was so nice to not have to take a bathroom break half-way through!"

Even Mulan had perked up now, and she told the story of how she'd first met Ruby but assumed she was hitting on a male colleague instead, and so had given him the number the attractive maître d' had written on the napkin she'd passed over. "And poor Ruby couldn't understand why Shang was phoning her and asking her out when she thought she'd made it clear it was me she was interested in!"

"What about you, Emma?" Mary Margaret asked.

"What about me, what?" She really wasn't going in to any details about the guy she'd gone on a minor crime spree with, prior to being left alone and pregnant.

"Your neighbour, the one Henry said made the shortbread?"

"Oh we're not seeing each other, or anything," Emma said quickly.

"But still, it's nice to have help," Aurora said, and Emma had to agree on that point because it had been nice to have help.

And it was nice to sit here and just allow herself to be part of something for once, too. The conversation drifted again and, as time passed, Emma felt a little less pressure, felt the scrutiny disappearing. This was actually _fun._

In the end they stayed longer than Emma had ever intended they would and, by the time she dragged an unwilling Henry out of Roland's bedroom so they could leave, and left with promises to return for Regina's New Year's Eve party, she was feeling much better about everything. The streets were filled with people leaving work to take care of their last Christmas tasks and Emma wondered if Killian was home yet or if he'd found something to do on Christmas day.

But that wasn't a line of thinking she should carry on with now, not when she'd so firmly shut the door on Killian the night before. It was a nice dream, but that was all it was ever going to be.

It was hard getting Henry into bed that night, the prospect of seeing Santa arrive far too much of a drawcard for a small boy intent on finding out if he was getting the lightsaber he really wanted. He got out of his room several times on the pretext of checking that the milk he'd left out was in the right position and that there were enough cookies on the plate beside them.

"Do you think Killian will come?" Henry asked.

"Killian? No. Why?"

"Because he's Santa's helper."

"Oh…well. No. I think he might be busy…you know. Santa has a lot to get through and I guess that includes Santa's helpers too."

Emma thought that was a good answer, but Henry rolled his eyes. "I know the truth, Mom!"

"You do?" Emma wondered just exactly what they'd been discussing in Roland's bedroom.

"Yeah, I do. Santa's helpers don't live next door, they live at the North Pole. I know he's really helping you. That's OK. I like it when you make friends."

"I have friends."

"Well, you do _now_. You didn't before." Emma couldn't really argue with that point, she'd been so focussed on Henry that she'd forgotten to look after herself. And she had enjoyed spending time with the other mothers earlier that day, and, if she was really honest, with Killian.

"I just…I don't know about Killian though." That was the truth, she had no idea where she stood with him now. Pity got you so far, but she hardly wanted that to be the thing that made him forgive her.

"And, anyway," Emma continued. "If you don't get some sleep then Santa won't be able to come, so stay in your bed this time."

"OK Mom. 'Night. Love you!" Henry turned and padded down the hall.

"Love you too, kid."

Emma was about to wait the requisite fifteen minutes and then begin the painstaking process of locating and wrapping all of Henry's gifts, when there was another knock at the door.

She flew over to open it, almost too eager to find out why Killian was here. If he noticed the change in her expression from the night before, he didn't say anything, seeming to be intent on saying the thing he'd come to say.

"I'm sorry, if I'm disturbing you, Emma. I just…well I wanted to let you know what it meant to me. That I very much enjoyed being part of your Christmas…it's been a long time since I've been a part of anything, since I even wanted to be. I just needed reminding that I could. So, in the spirit of Christmas, and expecting nothing in return, this is for you."

He handed over a package, wrapped in silver and red paper and Emma turned it in her hands a couple of times.

"You can open it," Killian instructed, and Emma did, tearing the paper and opening the box and pulling out…

"Measuring cups?" It was a set of cups, in the shape of little ducklings, which fit together like those Russian dolls that nested inside each other.

"I wanted to get swans…but they seem to only make ducks." He looked a little embarrassed.

"They're ducklings."

"Well, yeah. I guess."

"Like the ugly duckling that became a swan."

"Oh now," Killian waved his hand a couple of times. "I didn't really want to say _that_. Not to you. You're…you're lovely Emma."

And Emma never really knew if it was the compliment or the fact he'd picked such a thoughtful gift or the leftover feeling of finally belonging in the world that she had from earlier in the day, but, on impulse, she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the apartment, shutting the door behind them.

"I have something for you, too."

"You do?" Killian sounded far happier about that than she thought he should considering what it was she'd actually bought. But she'd worry about his reaction when he opened it.

"Here." She handed him the package that had been sitting under the tree and Killian sat on the sofa to open it carefully, pulling out the contents and examining them.

"It's silly, I know," Emma said, when he didn't say anything. "I'm sorry, it was just meant to be something to show that I…well I get it, about being part of something. I do now, anyway. And I'm sorry about last night, because I had a really good time making shortbread with you."

"And you bought me an apron that says _Santa's Little Helper_."

"I did. I'm sorry, but I did!" Emma burst out laughing because really, it was the stupidest gift imaginable.

Killian laughed with her and it was such a nice feeling, making someone else light up like he did that Emma was prompted to try one last thing. She grabbed a picture that Henry had coloured in at school, one that was on top of the pile of artwork still sitting on the coffee table from the day before, and she held it above her head.

"Here," she said. "Oh, look. Mistletoe."

"I think that might be holly, love," Killian squinted at the mess of green crayon she was holding up.

"But if I say it's mistletoe, then it counts, right?"

"I suppose it does."

Killian came closer and Emma waited as his eyes flicked from her mouth to her eyes and back again, and then he leaned forward, just a little more and he captured her mouth with his.

Emma melted. There wasn't really another way to put it. She felt suddenly boneless and weightless and that every nerve in her body was firing at once. It was such a good kiss, warm and exciting and Emma almost didn't want it to end.

But in the end she pulled back, not really wanting Henry to come looking for his Christmas presents and find her and Killian in a compromising position on the couch instead. "That was…" Killian said, sounding a little dazed.

"Great. But now I have to play Santa, sadly. But I bet we can get through that Lego really quickly if we work together." She looked over at Killian hopefully.

Killian looked at down at his prosthesis, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, love."

"I don't know. I think you're the best helper this Santa's ever had."

"Well, if you insist."

"I do. And then tomorrow, you can come over and try out the apron. I'm cooking lunch, I'm sure we'll have enough for one more."

Killian narrowed his eyes. "And you might need someone to help with the Lego."

"There's that, too. Come on, I'll wrap, you can be in charge of tape."

"Well I suppose I am Santa's helper."

"Yeah," Emma agreed. "You are." And then she kissed him again, just to make sure he knew exactly what that role entailed.

 **Thanks for reading and Merry Christmas everyone!**


End file.
